


life is like a box of crayons

by Mostly_Angst_Whoops



Series: Living Up To My Username [6]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander fucks up terribly, Angst, Death, Drinking, F/M, M/M, and not thomas, in which i use purple to describe alexander, there's no happiness at all, this is just angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 15:16:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12707553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mostly_Angst_Whoops/pseuds/Mostly_Angst_Whoops
Summary: the title is ironically happythere is no happiness





	life is like a box of crayons

Alexander had often thought about when life had color.

Everything seemed monotone now, always the same. Steady beeps on a hospital monitor, slow and ready to flatline. It took energy to lift up his hand to wipe away the tears.

His computer in front of him displayed a glowing image. His family. His was-family. Then there was the affair, painted in beautiful red, and he was instantly gone. Eliza’s face held a smile. Philip was on Alexander’s shoulders, and Alexander was grinning at the camera.

Picture perfect.

She’d been wearing crimson when she’d come up to him, and her crimson lips had left marks all over his body. He’d placed the blame on her. Of course it had to be her fault. He still couldn’t cope with the fact that it was his own fault, nobody but his own.

He’d been trying to write something, bring back some color, but soon the black words on the white document just blended into the world, only seeming to make it more dreary. He shut the window, just staring at the desktop picture. 

Alexander shut the computer. That part of his life was done. Eliza had shoved the divorce papers into his hands, and he hadn’t even tried to dispute. 

His fault.

Eliza had come to grab the finished papers back. There was no more anger on her face. No, she was never angry in the red way that Alexander had thought she’d be. She was disappointed. She glanced sadly at him before leaving.

Not her problem anymore. 

Alexander had collapsed, tears streaming down his face, even more color leaving. 

It had been orange once, sunshine and soft kisses. Not intense like yellow or red. Just, pure, calming orange. It was the feeling of John’s lips against Alexander’s cheek, and the soft giggles that followed after every one. It was the flowers that Alexander left at the grave every day. Every day turned into every week, and every week turned into sometimes, and now Alexander had almost completely given up on it.

Gold was the color of the bottle that he’d used to try to replace that orange. Burning liquid seared his throat every time he drank. He knew he was getting worse. He forced himself to work, to find solace in something else, even when he had Eliza right there. 

Yellow… yellow was Philip. An absolute joy. Hearing his rapid footsteps up the steps, watching the curls surrounding his face bounce around, seeing things that Alexander knew he rarely would see again.

He still hadn’t seen what the deal on custody was. He didn’t want to see.

He knew that if he had that bright ball of sunshine around him, Philip would have to deal with the constant cloud of gray that surrounded Alexander. That was too much.

Alexander sighed. It was beginning to get cold outside. The grass was covered in frost when he woke up, all of it perfectly coated in a layer of white. Alexander used to love first frost. Used to grin as it happened, ready for snow and snowball fights and everything else that came after. Ready for the sleigh bells and the cuddling around the Christmas tree. Ready for the world to give him some more.

Alexander was pretty sure life hated him now.

Christmas wouldn’t be the same. Laf was in France, and they had their own family to deal with. Herc was in New York, and he had his own family as well. Alexander had nobody.

Maybe he should’ve thought of that. 

Having nobody.

Because in essence, he’d fucked up all of the stable relationships he had. Eliza was gone. Angelica refused to talk to him. Philip was with the two of them. Washington was a little too old to deal with Alexander’s crap. Calling his boss seemed like a stupid idea, even if that boss clearly had a soft spot for Alexander. He didn’t want to confirm the rumors of favoritism. 

And John was just dead.

Alexander had nobody. He picked at his fingernail, deciding to drag himself to bed. He pulled the blankets over himself, trying to find some enjoyment, some color, some feeling other than absolute self hatred in the covers. 

It never came.

Alexander knew that self-help books were crap. He relied off of other people. He needed approval. After what had just happened? He was getting none of that.

Maybe he didn’t deserve it. After all, he had fucked up. It was his own fault. He was a bad person. Peaked already. Pity.

Green was gone too. No more holiday parties and snowball fights to make up for it either. It was just gone. 

Eliza had been wearing blue when Alexander had first met her. It was a charity gala, and Washington had expected Alexander to be there, so he was there. Sometime during the event, Eliza had given a presentation on the charity. Alexander had talked to her to figure out the details of the deal, and he’d left with a string of numbers that was hers. 

Eliza was also wearing blue when Alexander had come home the evening after he fucked up. She was wearing the fuzzy pajama pants saved for bad days. Bad days that were usually spent cuddling with each other.

She just shook her head and handed him a suitcase. 

Alexander hadn’t said anything, and it was that moment he was sure that it hadn’t been Maria’s fault at all. Eliza sniffled, holding her resolve together as she shut the door. Alexander didn’t know what happened after, but he wished he could’ve held her through it.

Blue pajama pants. 

It had been a bad day.

Alexander stared at his own blue pajama pants. It had been a week, and they still hadn’t come off. The snowflakes on them were covered in lint, and there were random patches of dirt and stains on his clothes. He looked miserable.

He _was_ miserable. 

Half his life over, and he had already given up. He picked at his blanket, sighing.

Purple was the feeling of the words on his keyboard. The words that used to make him grin and make his heart beat faster. The words that he used to rely on. Purple was electric, magnificent, regal.

Purple was what he used to be.

And now that, that was gone too. 

All that was left was the endless monotone around him. Something he’d never escape from.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!


End file.
